


Sacrilege Is Only Part Of The Problem

by ofproperform (orphan_account)



Series: Sins of the Flesh (AnderTegra) [1]
Category: Hellsing
Genre: Biting, Choking, Church Sex, F/M, Hate Sex, Hate fucking, Hate to Love, Public Sex, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, sorry for the self righteous hate sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10073633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ofproperform
Summary: He must bare her sins in the church, he is a priest after all.





	

It seems like this has happened _before_ ; he has her pinned to the wall and they are sneering at each other; this could be such a tragedy, but aren’t most of their meetings? Her fingers are tight around her sig-sauer and he is still holding one bayonet, the other is deep in the wall, pinned her suit, carefully missing her soft skin but she’s stuck there unless she loses the top.

 **And this is a church**.

They are vicious against each other, the holyman Alexander Anderson and the protestant, the babylon, Integra Hellsing. He hisses “heretic,” at her and gets close enough that they are almost nose-against-nose and she can feel his breath, hot and smelling of cheap whiskey, not very holy, on her face. She tilts her face up so she can exhale cigar breath into his face, a gentle motion, taunting, lips curled in an ‘o’, enough to make him snarl and snap his teeth like a wild animal. Grey hair falls into his face. He looks wild. So enticingly wild.

His free hand is on her throat now, and he has not closed down but oh she is tempting him by craning that slender, strong neck. And she moves her free hand to grasp the hand on her throat and squeeze.

 _Go ahead_. _**Do it**_.

So he did, tightened his grip, pressed into her, knee pressed down into her. He was even taller than Alucard, she noted this every time he was around her, and his legs seemed to stretch for miles. Anderson was _massive_. She reached for his collar, his blue eyes searching her, as she lifted the gun up, silent from being choked, those little noises, hiccups and coughs and whimpers so unlike her, being all she made; she reveals the safety still on, tossing it to the ground as her free hand took that **damned** clerical collar and snatched it off.

 _This is a church_.

“ _Hellsing_ ” He growled. She was stepping over boundaries even when he had an upper hand. Her fingers found his shirt collar and held it tight. He tightened his grip on her, he glared. She smirked. He’d drop her, knock her out from air loss or this would escalate. ”I could knock you out, right now.” He loosened his grip so she could speak.

In hoarse but dulcet tones she replied, pressing her neck back into his massive hands, feeling his rough gloves against her gentle flesh. “But you **won’t**.”

He pulled the bayonet from the wall, freed her, and she started to slip down the wall, but in a rough move he took the pinning knee and pressed it between her thighs. She gasped, moaned lewdly, and he held her there with a knee in between her legs and a hand on her throat. He took the bayonet, gripping it with his teeth. Still with her hand on his collar, she rocked her hips. A seductress in the house of God.

“That is still barbaric;" she chastises him for how he holds his bayonet, "there are much better things to bite, _Anderson_ \--” he glares. He prefers her silence. This is still so distressing to him. He grabs her suit, unbuttons it. She has tried, with every tryst, to get him to tear a button down, to bust the buttons on her jacket, to rip her slacks zipper. To even scuff her boots. Those would be revealing of their affair. Those aren’t the things that come from a battle. Those are from this. Sex. Heat and tearing clothes off.  But he is careful. At the worst when her body guards wake up from being knocked out, they will think she had been in a fight with him and that he backed down.

Why he even appeared will be a question people ask for days before forgetting.

He strips her down. Slowly he takes off her jacket, puts it beside them, pools her button down on top of it. He unbuttons her slacks, slowly yanking them down around her thighs, letting her stand to take them off of her. She keeps her boots on. He pulls her underwear off. She lets him, makes him strip her down. He must bare her sins in the church, he is a priest after all. She is in the field, she’s wearing a sports bra, and so he pushes it up over her head, slowly, she feels his gloves slide over skin. He avoids her breasts. Not yet, he can’t lose control over her yet. Because once he gives in to lust she has the upper hand.

Integra feels his hands grip her shoulders, pushing her against the wall. This is not what he wanted, he wants her dead, not in his arms. But as he kisses her, feeling her fingers work to strip him, he is both full of pleasure and disgust. He wants her and fears her. He’d take on a hoard of vampires over this sordid affair. She unbuckles his belt, grabs it. Slowly she pulled it from its loops, slowly, as his body inched closer to hers.

“What’s wrong papist?” She asked.

“I _hate_ you.” He takes his glasses off, she hands him her glasses and he tosses them on her clothes, a soft bed for the spectacles to rest in.

“ _ **Do you**_? Why was it you that kissed me first that first time? I remember you putting **your** hand between _**my thighs**_.” She was a damnable truth-speaker. She remembers the day he pressed her to a wall, hissed threats of death against her and seemed struck, kissed her after trying to kill her, sinned despite himself saying such holy vows, breaking devotion to God to find absolution between her legs. Making her see heavens she had long since rejected for the cold and bitter earthly tethers.

“We both enjoy this; not just because we’re getting something from it, but because **god** , it feels good to not have _feelings_ for someone we’re with, hmm?”

 _ **Feelings**_.

He shoved the idea of possibly harboring feelings for her into the back of his mind.

She undid the button on his pants, unzipped them, slid her hands into the zipper, and he growled. She retreated, put her hand on his now bare chest, on his scars. She brushed her hand over one, before exploring them. He was covered in scars, so was she. He wondered what gave her scars. She didn’t think much of his scars. Not in these heated meetings. He looked at the scar on her shoulder, thick and deep, as if she’d been broken open by something. It looked old, like the one that split his jaw and ripped up to his eye. There were more, small, large, a canvas of shades of caramel and honey and rose and more. One that traced the curve of the top of one breast, that he idly reached down to trace, one he always pressed a gloved hand to.

She pushed his pants down, he kicked out of them. She was nude, he was nearly there. He pulled his boxers down, he grabbed her. No more time for talk or foreplay.

It was quick, rough, nothing sweet. He pinned her to the wall, she noted that he was fucking her between a portrait of the most pathetic looking saint and a painting of a scene from the bible. Her hands found his shoulders, his met her thighs, her legs hooking around his hips. He was thick, and he always managed to make her cry out when he first pushed inside her-- a painful moment blurred out by the rest of it. This was a fight with no clear winner.

They were both coated with bruises and sweat and blood when they came out of it. Bite marks all over him from her muffling loud noises against him bite marks on her shoulder from her prompting. They both liked pain. They both liked looking at each other as they came; Integra cried out against his chest, nails dug into his back, blonde hair matted and wet with sweat, back arched, her heels deep in the small of his back, her eyes screwed shut, the cry dissolving into heaving gulps for air. She rolled through her orgasm, He wouldn’t stop moving, taking her, until she made him. When she came she reacted like someone being stabbed, he always watched her with such curious and appalling atraction, that she looked so violent while being in such ecstasy. He usually came before her; some nights, nights when he was particularly angry, it might take him longer. But he would come pinning her down, hands tightening on whatever they are holding, choking her, pushing her down on him, usually causing her to cry out, he is a always looking so intense, so focused. She liked it; she liked the way the next day she'd have hand-print bruises from him.

As they get dressed they examine the damage. He is still panting; covered in nail and bite marks that will fade, tiny bruises from her sucking and leaving hickeys. He will feel this night for a while. She is drenched in sweat, skin a canvas of bite marks and bruised throat and shoulders and she will be sore for at least a day.

She fixes her cravat, and as he finds his collar and replaces it, she grabs him, pressing her lips against his, pushing him against the wall. She had grabbed her gun, she released the safety. She hears voices, her guards are awake. In this last kiss they are desperate and clawing for this last moment. She _fires_.

Why is he so upset this moment will **end**?

She fires off the gun a few times. The first shot grazes his thigh. He takes a bayonet and ruins her sleeves, hooks the edge of a bayonet in her slack leg, yanks, nicks her a time, nicks himself-- make it look realistic.

A guard races in just as lips part, they are sneering at each other.

“Papist.”

“Protestant whore.” She grins, backs up.

“Such a holyman would _know_. Go home, Anderson, I've put holes in you before, I'll do it again."

“Aye, fine. But remember I can impale you.” He makes a move to strike her, it seems natural, she blocks with her gun, she stares him down, narrows her her eyes and pushes him back. He straightens to full height and shakes his head; and nearly a second later he disappears, and she turns to leave with her guards.

Perhaps natural or rehearsed. A _play_.

They're willing to keep it up.


End file.
